[That earns a laugh. A small, brusque huff of one, utterly mirthless. Oh, but he knows how to twist the knife in. Perhaps they should thank him for that. A tint of yellow in his SOUL, perhaps, to match the button that flashed in gold, that turned a SOUL into a pea-shooter.
no subject
Perhaps more indicative than first assumed.
They smile, a grim, rueful twist of the lips.]
Do you forgive me, Mettaton?